


Snow Angels

by Britpacker



Series: Life On Earth [12]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Family Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Trip hates the snow, but for the sake of his angels he'll live with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** An unbeta'd snapshot of family life. A one-shot distraction from the multi-chapter fic I'm supposed to be working on!

Snow. I hate it. 

Sure, as a kid in Florida I thought it looked really neat; all white and fluffy and inviting. Of course, I'd only seen pictures back then.

It took five minutes of being in the real stuff - a ski vacation in Colorado with a couple of other first-year cadets - to change my mind. It's cold. And it hurts you ass when you fall on it.

Which I did a lot. Some folks just aren't built to ski, and I'm one of them.

Which means I'm plain crazy to have suggested a vacation here. In the middle of the Austrian Alps. In February, for crying out loud! 

I need my frozen head examining.

Frosty air strikes the back of my neck as I turn back from the refrigerator. Why do they have them here, they could just leave everything on the doorstep! Got to stop the milk boiling over, get the cocoa in, grab cinnamon for Melissa, cream for Malcolm, marshmallows for Charlie and me. Jamie wanted cream too, just like his Daddy. He'd still be howling now if Malcolm hadn't dragged them back into the garden for a snowball fight.

Malcolm. Playing snowballs. That's why I suggested this. He needed a break.

He was _supposed_ to be relaxing; enjoying his share of the parental leave, bonding with Jamie and taking time with the older kids. God knows, Charlie's at school already; Melissa's ready to start soon. They're growing up too fast.

But oh, no. Captain Conscientious couldn't just cut off from the lab, could he? While I spent my months painting weird random pictures with my daughter and teaching my firstborn the rules of football (not soccer, I mean the _proper_ one), Malcolm fretted over his torpedo designs, worked on his phase rifle amendments and threw a hissy fit every time Melissa scraped her knee or a speck of dust landed on his dining table. He went back to work more stressed than he'd left it: and four weeks later, when we switched duties...it happened all over again. 

Someday he's going to realise, nobody expects him to be Superman.

The house had to be spotless. The kids had to be immaculate. Jamie's diaper wasn't allowed to stink, not even for a minute. My dinner had to be on the table when I got home. And the work he was supposed to have left for some other sucker in the lab to handle still had to be done from his office.

No wonder he couldn't shake off that damn virus. He's been running himself into the ground. I was starting to think he had post-natal depression, for fuck's sake!

Stirring my patented chocolate drinks together I can't help but smile at the sudden, raucous gust of his laughter from the misty garden. He loves it here, his Gran's old Tyrolean chalet. Like Maddie told me when they inherited it. "I know it's a bother, Trip, dealing with the holiday lets, but we can't part with the place. Malcolm loves it so."

I can't see them. 

Okay, the garden's big and stretches away into the pinewoods behind the house, but still - three hyperactive kids and a paranoid Englishman all bundled up in bright padded jackets shouldn't be hard to spot on a grey-white background, right?

I'm smart enough (this time) to leave the drinks on a tray and take it easy on the step out: Mal (with a little "help" from Charlie) clears the path every morning but there's another layer come down while we were shopping and the clouds hang so low the mountains are shrouded to the waist. I've got the same studded boots as Malcolm, but I don't trust them like he does. I sort of shuffle along like an old man, and he's done nothing but encourage the kids to laugh at me. 

Smug bastard. And what in Hell's name are they doing?

My husband and children are flat on their backs in the snow, arms and legs swishing out at their sides, all four laughing like fools. "Am I missin' something here?"

"Poppa, we're making snow angels!" Melissa looks like a cherub already, all round and rosy as she clambers up and waves at the poppet-sized hollow she's left in the snow. "Daddy didn't know how."

Jamie needs a hand up but before I can make a move his big sister's already there, clucking like a little mother and dusting him down while he wobbles, still unsteady on his fat little legs. Hoshi says we're lucky she's not mad about not being the baby any more, but sometimes I think she'll spoil that boy. 

"Well it looks to me like you'll need your pyjamas and Poppa's special hot chocolate to warm you up, so... scram!"

They're not spooked by the sheen of frost that sparkles over the snowdrifts. They're off in a whirl of chubby arms, short legs and woollen scarves, Charlie dragging his kid brother along faster than thirteen-month-old legs are meant to go, Melissa skipping on ahead. What were we thinking of, having a third child before the other two were both in school?

Malcolm grins up at me, all white teeth and dancing eyes, and I remember. We love our children. We love being a family. And even if they drive us crazy at times, and finding that "work-life balance" thing makes crewing Enterprise in a war zone seem like a snip, we wouldn't change a single snotty nose or bruised knee of it.

"I can see why they call 'em snow angels," the love of my life muses, snuggling in nice and close into my side. My arm comes around him automatically and suddenly I know why he's pressing in so tight. I'm warm from the kitchen. He's wet, cold and if he didn't have so much goddamn self-control his teeth would be chattering. But he's staring at the swished-out indents in the snow with a wondering smile that softens his angular features, like he can't believe he had a hand in making them. He looks relaxed. Happy.

He looks like my Malcolm again. 

It doesn't matter how fucking cold it is, or how often my feet slide from underneath me on the walk into the village. If it'd keep that smile on his face, I'd stay here all winter.

The kids have found their drinks: the furious voices of the older two, each shouting the superiority of their chosen topping, are most likely audible the other side of the Achensee. Malcolm sighs.

"They;re so lovely when they're not fighting," he says, and it's that gorgeous twinkle in his eye that tells me he's kidding. He hardly looks more than a boy himself when he's being mischievous, and I can't help but play along.

"You mean when they're asleep, right?" His harrumph confirms my hunch and I hug him tighter, feeling the damp soak from his coat through into my sweater. "And you're all wet, Cap'n Reed. Seems to me somebody else needs his cocoa and pyjamas."

"Are you going to tuck me into bed with a story, Captain Tucker?" he croons, looking me dead in the eye.

I'm sure he can tell my balls have just tightened. I'll bet he's laughing his cute wet butt off inside when I croak what's supposed to be a "Hell, yeah!" 

And there's a definite swing to his walk as he saunters off up the path ahead of me, giving a coy glance back to make sure I'm paying proper attention. Now, how fast can we get the kids to bed?

I figure the chief of my snow angels is about to turn into a red-hot devil, all for me. 

To hell with cold. We're coming back next year!


End file.
